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THE 

BUNCH OF VIOLETS 

By 

W. G. BOWDOIN 

Author of Jack and Jill Modernized 




Privately Printed 

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK 

CHRISTMAS 
M CM VII 






Gift 



A Memory Note 

Half Fad:, Half Fancy 

by 



ifor 







THE BUNCH OF VIOLETS 

The violet s charms I firize indeed, 
So modest tis and fair, 
§t±nd smells so sweet. — Goethe 




ERE IS SOME* 
thing very appeal* 
ing to the feminine 
mind about flow* 
ers. A violet, an 
orchid, a pink, a 
rose, a lily of the 
valley, a narcissus, or other flower, 
single or in mass, when neatly pinned 
on, nestles at the corsage or on the 
bosom, as a harmonious adornment 
of the feminine wearer, to whom the 
flower's exquisite shape or delicate 
perfume, is offered as a deserved trib* 
ute. Flowers and the woman go 
hand in hand. 

5 



® Oliver Stone knew this, as lie 
walked along the street one Sunday 
afternoon. He recognized, vaguely 
perhaps, but nevertheless recognized 
the affinity that always has & always 
will exist between flowers and fern* 
ininity. It was because of this recog* 
nition that he stepped into a florist's 
shop, by which, with less discrimin* 
ation, he might easily have passed, 
and bought a bunch of violets. Mr. 
Stone, it may be said, in passing, had 
an engagement to dine at his club 
with his soul's idol, and he had an 
idea that violets would look well upon 
her as he sat at table and looked across 
at her. So he bought the bunch o£ 
violets and paid their winter price. 
The florist wrapped them up, but the 
bundle looked suspiciously like the 
flowers that they were. Mr. Stone 
6 



did not seem to care anything about 
this circumstance, however, and af* 
ter leaving the florins, continued his 
walk with a jaunty air. He even 
hummed a few lyrical bars from one 
of the light operas. 

There was nothing very remark* 
able about the appearance of Mr. 
Stone to differentiate him from any 
other man. He was neatly but unob* 
trusively dressed. His shoes were 
well polished and a careful observer 
might have noticed that his four*in* 
hand tie was a new one. The January 
air was brisk, and, as he breathed it, 
he realized something of the joy of 
living even when a man lacks riches. 
He saw things tinted with couleur de 
rose and naturally felt jovial. The 
shop windows were for the most part 
uncurtained as he passed and their 

7 



diversified contents were cunningly 
arranged so as to be as alluring as pos* 
sible. Every no wand then Mr. Stone 
would pause and look at one of the 
show windows. He was particularly 
interested in the art shops &he gazed 
long and earnestly at certain pictures 
that were hung on the line in their 
windows. 

He was conscious of the hum that 
precedes the passing of ametropolitan 
trolley car, but he paid no attention 
to the frequent dashing by of these 
cars. He was thinking about a certain 
personality that had great charm for 
him, and the people that he met and 
passed, the shop windows, the trac* 
tion cars and everything else that 
tended todistract, were,after all, only 
backgrounds, against which, con* 
jured up by a vivid mentality, ^tood 
8 



out in bold relief, the girl and the 
delightful red coat that she was wear* 
ing this season. 

Mr. Stone was not particularly 
hurried,but he walked on. His fleece* 
lined gloves kept his hands warm in 
the chill air. The city trees along the 
traversed streets were bare of the 
foliage that makes them so attractive 
in summer time, but the trolley wires 
seemed to sing merrily to him of her 
in a manner which entirely offset the 
melancholy suggested by the denud* 
ed trees. It is singular what a mighty 
influence is often exerted by one who 
is far away. Possibly there is more 
to the absent treatment practiced by 
the Christian Scientists than the skep- 
tics are willing to admit. However 
this may be, Mr. Stone walked on 
and on and on. At a certain cross 



street lie met his friend James Os* 
borne walking toward him. Osborne 
advanced with extended hand. 

"How are you, Stone ?" said he. 
"Pleasant day after the rain." 

The two shook hands cordially. 
Osborne continued uncrushed by the 
iron look of Stone, inspired perhaps 
by premonition : 

"I see you are about to call upon 
her and that you are going to pay the 
usual tribute in the way of flowers. 
Is it not so ? " 

It is difficult to say why, but under 
the influence of psychology, the an* 
alysis of which need not here con* 
cernus the manner of Stone changed 
quickly but almost imperceptibly 
from gay to grave. He liked Osborne, 
but to be questioned thus by him was 
a jarring note. In another moment 
10 



Talleyrand's famous didtum, that 
language was given to us for the pur** 
pose of concealing our thoughts, 
came over him in a flash of happy- 
inspiration, unconsciously shaping 
his reply. 

"My dear Osborne," said Stone, 
"your conclusions do you credit, but, 
alas, they are based upon false prem* 
ises. It is true that I carry flowers. 
In point of fact I may say that they 
are violets, but their destination is, 
unfortunately, not such as you have 
outlined. I weep bitter, scalding tears 
when I think o£ the joy that might 
come to me if your suggestions could 
only be realized, but my errand to* 
day is concerned rather with an 
attempt to moderate the sufferings of 
one of the members o£ our lodge, 
Freeman you know, who now 
ii 



languishes in St. Luke's hospital, and 
these violets will, I tru^t, lend them* 
selves to comforting him when I leave 
after I have visited with him for a 
brief hour or so." 

"You will, said Stone, gaining con* 
fidence in the realization of a good 
lie, well told, "again see how easy it 
is to be mistaken, in this sad world of 
ours, and that more than one dispos* 
ition may easily be made of violets, 
sweet violets." 

He paused for reply. "Yes," said 
Osborne, " I see, I see. By the way," 
he remarked somewhat irrelevant* 
ly, "give my regards to your moth* 
er and let us hope that your hospital 
friend will soon recover. It is a joy* 
ous thing to have a friend, such as 
you, to bring violets to his cotside. 
My dear Stone, let me not detain you 
12 



longer le^t your languishing friend 
should over4anguish. Farewell, 
Stone, you ministering angel, fare* 
well," and Osborne passed on. 

So did Stone, who could not help 
wondering meanwhile i£ Osborne 
suspedted insincerity. Mr. Stone con* 8 
tinued his walk toward the try^ting 
place already agreed upon. Suddenly 
a fire engine with frenzied horses and 
clanging bell dashed pa^t him, fol* 
lowed by the usual throng of idlers 
who are always attradted by a fire 
engine. The Sunday calm was rude* 
ly broken. So also was the train of 
thought on the part of Mr. Stone, 
which had easily drifted back to the 
red coat, the girl in it, and the flow-* 
ers he meant that she should wear at 
dinner that night. Fire engines at 
such a time are very dii^tradling. 

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$? Mr. Stone reached the Brooklyn 
Bridge and began to walk over it. He 
looked toward New York City and 
saw its skyline. He had seen it many 
times before, but upon this particular 
Sunday afternoon it seemed to Stand 
out stronger perhaps than ever. 
When he vaguely realized what it 
meant to so many people he was tre* 
mendously impressed. 

fc 'Dear old New- York. There is no 
other city like it." So he mused as he 
looked toward Governor's Island. 
Now he had passed over the bridge 
and essayed to cross Broadway. A 
street car got persistently in front o£ 
him and barred his progress for fully 
ten minutes. When the way was 
finally cleared of this obstruction he 
saw another friend, one William 
Lathrop, approaching. He greeted 
14 



him pleasantly but not with over en* 
thusiasm, as he now wished to avoid 
detention. 

Mr. Lathrop was, however, unin* 
fluenced by similar considerations. 
He was in no hurry whatever. The 
two exchanged greetings and passed 
the time of day. 

Suddenly Lathrop noticed the 
flowers, and suspicion entered into 
him as did the evil spirits into the 
herd of swine, who thereupon dashed 
violently down a steep place into the 
sea to their universal undoing. 
"Where away -with the flowers, 
friend Stone?" said Lathrop. Stone a* 
gain dissembled. "These violets, you 
mean ? Oh, I am taking them to the 
Club to be distributed to the heathen," 
said he, without pausing to think. 
But suddenly realizing his careless 

*5 



utterance he murmured sotto voce 
"Heaven save the mark! May I be 
forgiven these vain words ! \ 

"Are these heathen foreign or do* 
medtic ? " inquired Lathrop. 

"Yes. No. I guess so. I don't 
know/" confusedly said Stone. 
"Why do you ask?" 

"Oh nothing, only such people 
have interested me for years," said 
Lathrop. "I have always wondered 
why the heathen rage and why they 
imagine vain things the way they 
are said to do. Can it be that the 
heathen are feminine? But no, o£ 
course they can't be. And yet, and 
yet, and yet — " He did not finish. 
Into the eyes of Lathrop there came 
a far-away look that strikingly re* 
sembled the so-called "hunted look" 
that finds mention in folk4ore tales. 
16 



He was thinking hard and ere he was 
aware he had mechanically moved 
on, just before a blue coated police* 
man wearing his new military cap, 
could formulate his intended order 
for him to do so. Stone gazed medita* 
tively after the retreating form of 
Lathrop and mentally wished him a 
pleasant journey and a safe return, 
in the manner of the landlord of the 
fashionable seaside hotel, whose 
business it is to welcome the coming 
and speed the parting gue^t. Stone 
felt that he could with a clear con* 
science speed Lathrop, in spite of his 
mythical story of the heathen destin* 
ation of the violets that he still held 
firmly clasped in his right hand. 

Breathing easily, at this la^t es* 
cape, Stone had but ju^t turned the 
corner when who should re*appear 

l 7 



but the ubiquitous Osborne, and. wo* 
ful to relate, with him was Miss 
Freeman, the sifter of his only real 
creation, the sick fellow lodge 
member. 

" Well met," cried Osborne glee" 
fully. "Miss Freeman is ju^t on her 
way to St. Luke's. You can take her 
there and make your visit at the same 
time. 

With a wrathful glare, barely 
smothered as Miss Freeman looked 
in amazement at him, Stone muttered 
an excuse about a previous engage* 
ment before he would be ready to go 
to the hospital, and fled precipitately 
down a side street. 

Reaching at la^l the place of meet* 

ing, worn out with his fabrications 

of the afternoon, exasperated by the 

open incredulity of his friends, and 

18 



the final narrow escape, he threw the 
flowers into the girl's hands, saying 
somewhat impatiently, fc 'take them! " 
All unconscious of their previous his* 
tory, the girl drew herself up indig* 
nant at the manner of the gift. Dire 
consequences threatened to overtake 
Stone, but truth, though late in the 
day, and almost crushed to earth, 
triumphed at last. As he faithfully 
delineated the agonizing experiences 
of the afternoon her anger faded, and 
she wore the violets for him ju£t as 
he had intended she should do in the 
fir^t place, and all the time. When 
he looked over the teacups at her, he 
forgot all about the hypothetical visit 
to St. Luke's hospital and the mythi* 
cal distribution of his flowers to the 
heathen by his club, about which he 
had so wickedly romanced. And the 

' 19 



only thing about which he could pos* 
sibly think was how becoming the 
delicately perfumed violets looked 
on the girl who in dining sat immedi' 
ately facing him at the table. 



Here ends "The Bunch of Violets," 
-written by W. G. Bowdoin; with 
frontispiece in photogravure from a 
study by Agnes Vinton Luther. One 
hundred two copies printed for the 
author by Frederic & Bertha Goudy 
at The Village Press, New York in 
November, 1907, and the type dis* 
tribute d. This copy is No. 





3477-113 
Lot 74 












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